A Valentine Tale
by Doctor Napalm
Summary: It's Valentine's Day and Sherlock senses something is not quite right, he just can't figure out what it is.


**Sherlock's Valentine Tale**

The room was dark when Sherlock Holmes was awakened by the sound of a cat making loud hacking sounds. _Hairball_, he thought to himself. Cats could be utterly disgusting creatures at times. He wondered why anyone would want to keep one as a pet; but the cat was Molly's problem, not his.

Molly Hooper was sprawled diagonally in the bed beside him, still sleeping soundly following their activities of the evening before. While they had been enjoying intimate relations for some time now, he was still reluctant to call their relationship love…or anything even remotely close to it. Even the thought of the word "love" dredged up too many other uncomfortable things for him to consider. He knew that Molly thought otherwise, but she didn't nag him about saying the cliché "three little words" that all women wanted to hear. That was fine with him.

As he cleared his head, he realized that it was Valentine's Day. That brought up even more uncomfortable associations that he would rather not consider. He decided it would be best to take his leave while Molly was asleep and avoid the subject completely. He was certain she would understand and not be upset. Perhaps he could stop somewhere and pick up a gift of some sort for her just in case.

He sat up in the bed and swung his feet onto the floor. Slowly standing up, he tried to be as quiet as possible. Rummaging around on the floor in the dark he finally located his trousers where he had stripped them off in the heat of passion and pulled them on. After locating his shirt and shoes, he stepped into the loo, closed the door and turned on the light. Looking in the mirror over the wash basin, he wiped a smear of lipstick from his cheek and then ran a comb through his hair. He needed a shave, but otherwise he was still the most handsome consulting detective he knew.

He snapped off the light and gently opened the door. Molly was still asleep, that was good. He slowly crept through the dark flat as silently as possible, opened the front door, and slipped into the hallway, gently closing and locking the door behind him. He had several places to go and things to do today.

**ɸ**

The pavement was wet and the reflected glare of street lamps shone in Sherlock's eyes. The rain had started around midnight and it was still drizzling lightly. The weather had been uncharacteristically warm for February and he regretted neglecting to wear his suit coat or jacket yesterday. Glancing at the fascia, he noticed the petrol gauge on the Range Rover was approaching empty. Spotting a station, he pulled up to a pump, opened the door and got out. He shivered a bit as a damp breeze chilled his back. Smiling slightly, he noticed that the price of petrol had dropped slightly. His vehicle's fuel economy was not that great and any savings was a true blessing.

As he started to fill the tank, a yellow Renault Clio pulled up to the adjacent pump and its driver got out to fill his tank as well. "Had a great time last evening, hey what?" the other driver remarked to Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye but pretended that he had not heard the comment. Rather cheeky, he thought; it made him uncomfortable when total strangers tried to chat him up like that.

Placing the pump nozzle back on its hook, Sherlock walked into the small shop to pay. As he walked through the door the attendant behind the counter turned his head towards him and smiled. "Pump three," mumbled Sherlock, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

The attendant looked at a console and said "That'll be thirty quid."

He pulled out the bills and placed them on the counter. Picking them up, the attendant handed him a receipt. As he turned to leave the attendant remarked, "Be careful out there mate, looks like you might still have your beer goggles on."

Sherlock hesitated for a split second but then shrugged off the attendant's cryptic comment. Beer goggles indeed! He had only a bit of wine last night with Molly, certainly not enough to make him tipsy. He had too much else to do today to bother getting into an argument with a rude cashier.

**ɸ**

As he got back into the Rover, Sherlock's mobile played the opening notes of Charles Gounod's "Funeral March for a Marionette," his current ringtone for Lestrade. He pulled the telephone from his pocket and looked at the screen. He had a text message waiting from the Detective Inspector. He frowned and considered ignoring the text, but John had been complaining about some lab equipment he had purchased recently that had put a crimp in their budget. A consult with Lestrade would certainly help assuage that problem. He swiped the screen and the message appeared.

"BRKWEL PK DUK PND ASAP – GL"

Sherlock thought a moment. Obviously Lestrade needed his assistance at one of the duck ponds in Brockwell Park off of Dulwitch Road just south of Brixton. Closing the message, he slipped the mobile back in his pocket.

Brockwell Park was a rather large place with plenty of hidden places that someone could run into various forms of mayhem if they weren't careful. The park had undergone a massive restoration project recently and plastic construction fences, orange barrels and heavy earthmoving equipment were still scattered around the area.

The rain had stopped and the sun had risen by the time he arrived. He had no problem locating the crime scene where several police cars with flashing lights were parked on the berm. Two men in yellow reflective jackets were directing traffic, trying to keep people from rubbernecking. Pulling off the road as close to the scene as he could, Sherlock got out of the vehicle and approached Sargent Donovan standing outside a yellow tape barrier.

"Freakier than usual today," she said as he passed by and stooped to slip under the barrier.

He spotted Lestrade standing near the edge of one of the duck ponds that were scattered about the park. Several other police officers milled about, doing whatever they were supposed to be doing. Anderson, the forensics guy, was kneeling on the ground nearby, inspecting what was appeared to be the reason he had been called.

Lestrade waved and walked over to speak with him before he got close enough to see what was going on. Sherlock noticed that the normally clean-shaven detective was sporting some stubble. Obviously he had been called to the crime scene before performing his morning catharsis.

"You're looking a bit unkempt this morning," Sherlock said.

Lestrade paused, blinked his eyes, cocked his head slightly and raised his eyebrows. "You're one to talk," he replied.

Sherlock ran his hand over his chin feeling his own stubble. "I suppose you're right. What do we have here?"

"Apparent murder; one of the park employees discovered the body this morning when he came to work. No wallet or ID on the body. There is a nasty wound on the back of his head and his fingertips are blistered so badly we can't get prints. None of the locals recognize him. I need you to examine the body and give me something to help me figure out who he is."

By the time Sherlock left he had determined that the victim was left-handed, recently divorced or at least having an affair, and a graduate of the London School of Economics. He had recently taken a job as a bank manager, lost a significant amount of weight, drove a sports car with a stick shift, and had three children under the age of twelve (two boys and a girl). The murder had occurred after midnight but before 3 a.m. The murder weapon was made of wood (most likely a hockey stick) and had been wielded by a short person less than 170 centimeters tall who smoked a pipe. He had been tortured prior to his death by having his hands dipped in concentrated formic acid, most likely to extract confidential information regarding the bank he worked for.

Sherlock had detected something else. Everyone at the crime scene treated him strangely, as if there was something apparently obvious that he wasn't privy to. He had noticed Anderson chatting with Donovan and by their gestures and furtive glances in his direction he could tell they were talking about him. He couldn't quite pin down what it was, but he was certain that there was nothing else to be gleaned from the scene. As he headed back to the Range Rover he saw Lestrade snapping his picture.

**ɸ**

The rest of the day went pretty much the same way. People gave him funny looks or made strange remarks to him everywhere he went. Something was definitely wrong. He looked down at his shirt but could see nothing on it. His made sure the fly on his trousers was solidly zipped up, nothing on his shoes. He had checked his face in the mirror before he left Molly's flat and, apart from the beard stubble, it had looked fine .He checked again in the rear-view mirror; he was still as handsome as ever. Whatever it was, he was at a loss to figure it out.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to his flat at 221b Baker carrying the sack of groceries he had picked up. The girl at the checkout had been one of the many people who had acted in a peculiar manner. Opening the door he saw his flatmate, John Watson, standing in front of the open fridge. "It's about time you got back, I assume these frozen mice are for one of your experiments and not …" the doctor stopped in mid-sentence as he turned to look at Sherlock.

A broad smile appeared on John's face and he began to snort. He bent over with his hands on his knees and howled with laughter.

"What!" Sherlock shouted. "What in the bloody hell is wrong?"

"Y-y-you, you stayed at Molly's last night, didn't you?" John replied as he unsuccessfully tried to stifle a loud cackle.

"Yes, yes I did. What of it?"

John laughed again and tried to catch his breath. He leaned against the kitchen counter and looked away from Sherlock, trying to compose himself.

He turned around again and burst into laughter again. "You don't know…"

"What! What don't I know?"

John closed his eyes and strained to stop laughing. He pointed a shaking finger at Sherlock and snorted again. He turned his head away and snickered. "Go…Go…look…look at yourself in…in the bedroom mirror…" he finally said before breaking up into uncontrollable laughter again.

Angrily, Sherlock turned and walked into his bedroom where there was a full-length mirror on the back of the door. Examining himself, he saw nothing out of place at first. Then he noticed something tan-colored behind him. Turning sideways to examine his back, he finally saw the reason for everyone's strange behavior. There, hanging out of the back of his trousers, nearly touching the floor, were Molly's tights. He had been walking around all day with them trailing behind him like a spandex tail.

He could still hear John laughing convulsively in the kitchen. As he vowed to himself never to dress in the dark again, he considered a box of chocolates and a new pair of tights might be a rather hackneyed but appropriate gift to send Molly for Valentine's Day.

**Author's Note:**

This is based on a true story. It really happened…to me. I dressed in the dark and walked around town with a pair of my wife's pantyhose hanging out the back of my pants. I can assure you, it was most embarrassing, but at least everyone had a good laugh.

Thanks to the ladies of the Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen forum for their suggestion of an embarrassing story about Sherlock for Valentine's Day. The prompt was addressed to my wife, Patemalah21, but I begged her to let me write it instead. I hope you have enjoyed it.

And, as always, reviews don't take long to do and are most appreciated.


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